Rafe Mendez, 53, has made a living restoring vintage motorcycles out of his converted Boise garage for 11 years, ever since he left a steady construction job to stop answering to foremen who thought quality work could be rushed. His biggest flaw, one he’s only recently started admitting to, is that he’s terrified of small-town gossip—has been ever since his ex-wife left him for a commercial real estate agent 7 years prior, and every cashier at the grocery store felt entitled to ask him how he was holding up for six whole months. He’s spent the years since sticking to his shop, his fishing spots, and the monthly swap meet out in Garden City, only talking to people he knows won’t spread nonsense.
The October air bites at the tip of his nose as he kneels by his beat-up F-150, strapping the 1972 Honda CB750 he just scored for $1200 to the truck bed. It’s been sitting in a barn for 18 years, its gas tank crusted with rust, its carburetor seized, but he can already picture it polished up, roaring down the highway by spring. The air smells like two-stroke exhaust, fried green tomatoes from the food truck at the edge of the lot, and pine blowing down from the Boise National Forest, and his jeans are stiff from three hours of kneeling on cold gravel.
He stands, wipes grease off his hands on the thigh of his flannel, and heads toward the food truck. He’s avoided it for months, ever since Maren Hale’s husband, the former Ada County sheriff, got busted for embezzling $80k in county funds. Half the regulars at the swap meet still go hunting with the guy, even though he’s on probation, and no one’s talked to Maren outside of ordering food unless they want to start drama. Rafe has told himself a dozen times it’s not worth the hassle, even if he can’t stop glancing over at her whenever he’s at the meet, even if he’s noticed she wears scuffed work boots just like his, even if he’s caught her looking back at him just as often.
She’s leaning against the counter of the truck when he walks up, flipping through a dog-eared western romance novel, a smudge of mustard on her left cheek, her hair pulled back in a messy braid. When she sees him, she doesn’t give him the tight, polite smile she gives the guys who refuse to make eye contact with her. She grins, tucks the book under the counter, and leans forward, her forearms resting on the metal ledge between them. He orders a chili dog and a root beer, his voice rougher than he intends, and when she hands them to him, her fingers brush his for half a beat. Her skin is warm even though the temperature’s hovering at 42 degrees, and a tingle runs up his arm that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Nice CB you picked up,” she says, nodding toward his truck. “Had a 1970 model back when I was 20. My ex made me sell it, said bikes were too dangerous for women.”
Rafe blinks. He’s never heard anyone mention her riding before. “Wanna sit on it? I just adjusted the seat, it’s still loose enough to move for you.”
She hesitates, glancing over at the group of regulars at the picnic table 20 feet away, all of them watching them like they’re putting on a show. She shrugs, wiping her hands on her apron. “My shift ends in 10 minutes. Meet me by your truck?”
He nods, walks back to the F-150, and spends the next 10 minutes pacing, wiping grease off his hands on his jeans over and over, telling himself he’s an idiot for doing this, that he likes his quiet, drama-free life just fine, that he doesn’t need the whole town talking about him again. But when she walks over, her braid undone, her hair blowing in the wind, carrying a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, all those thoughts vanish.
She swings her leg over the bike easily, no awkward fumbling, wraps her hands around the handlebars, and grins so wide her cheeks dimple. “Feels just like mine did. God, I missed this.”
He leans in to adjust the idle knob for her, his chest inches from her shoulder, and he can smell lavender hand cream mixed with the fried food scent that’s clung to her hoodie. She tilts her head up, and their faces are so close he can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the faint laugh lines around her mouth. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t glance over at the guys at the picnic table to see if they’re watching, just leans in and kisses her.
She makes a soft, surprised sound, then kisses him back, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, her thumb brushing the faint scar on his jaw he got when he crashed a dirt bike when he was 22. He hears a couple of guys holler from the picnic table, but he doesn’t care, too busy noticing how soft her lips are, how she tastes like root beer and peppermint gum.
When they pull apart, she laughs, wiping a smudge of grease off his cheek with her thumb. “I’ve been waiting three months for you to do that, you know.”
He blinks, surprised. “I thought you’d get hell for it. Half the guys here still kiss your ex’s ass.”
She shrugs, swinging her leg off the bike. “I stopped caring what anyone in this town thinks the day he got arrested and half the people I’d known for 20 years stopped returning my texts. Life’s too short to skip good things just because small-minded people wanna gossip.”
He nods, opens the passenger door of the truck for her, and she slides in, setting her tote on the floor by her feet. “I know a diner 15 minutes up the highway,” he says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Makes the best apple pie in the state. No one from town goes there this time of day.”
She grins, reaching over to twist the radio knob. A George Strait track he hasn’t heard since he was in his 20s cuts through the static, and she hums along, tapping her boot on the dash. He turns the key in the ignition, pulls out of the parking lot, and doesn’t even glance in the rearview mirror to see if anyone’s watching.
